


Things we’re bound to

by silvervelour



Series: Both hands tied [2]
Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: F/F, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Sex, Sequel!, cam girl trixie!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 21:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15542286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvervelour/pseuds/silvervelour
Summary: The shape of the bun gives Trixie’s tired skull the relief she’s been craving - it’s a pillow, Katya’s a mattress - and she closes her eyes once more, shuts off the faucet with her toes. She sighs; Katya’s hands are everywhere, rubbing away the lines, the indentations that her panties have left in her hips, along with trailing up to her stomach, tapping rhythmically around her navel.It’s as soothing as the calming water, as intoxicating as the scent of Sicilian lemons flooding her nostrils, and Trixie exhales raggedly with each touch that works deeper, coaxes out the ache of her cramps.“Tell me about your day-”. Trixie mutters.“-Please?”. She adds.





	Things we’re bound to

**Author's Note:**

> mid way through writing ch.3 of iyc, my personal life got flipped upside down and this is the result. 
> 
> i’ve been planing a sequel for a while, i even have parts of ch.2 of this written, but i finally put it all together and edited it so here it is!! 
> 
> this gets quite graphic, read the tags!! 
> 
> but with that said, i hope you enjoy!! feel free to let me know your thoughts!

Trixie gets her hair cut on a Saturday, at her bi-monthly scheduled appointment.

Her stylist and her colourist, _Monét and Asia_ , greet her at the door of the salon with wide grins and a pep in their steps. They usher Trixie into the open space of mirror covered walls, guide her towards one of the furthest away chairs and sit her down with the usual pleasantries and predictable questions; _how are you?, would you like anything to drink?._

Trixie hates it.

From head to toe, her body aches. It centres in her gut, knots in her abdomen and travels up to her breasts that are tender in the padded sports bra that she’s protected them with, beneath her knitted sweater that she knows is too thick for the Californian fall. It’s rough, corse against her skin, her sensitivity heightened to the extent that Trixie flinches, inhales sharply when Monét plants her hands on Trixie’s shoulders.

Monét squeezes at them, squashes Trixie’s freckles under her palms as she beams at Trixie through the mirror, brighter than the studio lights that are embedded in the wooden perimeter. Asia stands by, is already turning to retrieve Trixie’s regular coffee choice from the machine that they keep put back, and leaves with the promise that she’ll be back shortly.

Trixie doesn’t doubt her, and relaxes into the hold of the padded leather chair when Monét’s pressure lessens. She loosens her grip, and Trixie slumps, crosses her legs lethargically as her thighs rip from the leather with a crackle. It burns, causes goosebumps to arise on her shoulders that Monét’s still massaging sporadically, thumbs digging into the tense nerves.

Monét eyes her pitifully, can see the pain that clouds Trixie’s eyes, spaced out and drunk on the knife stabs that pierce her groin, the ropes that twist and tie themselves complexly behind her navel. Trixie smiles apologetically, understands that her lacklustre company would be less than desired by most, and is grateful when Monét signals over her shoulder, tells Trixie that she has pain killers out back, if the needs them.

Declining politely, Trixie shakes her head - she’s as dosed up on paracetamol and ibuprofen that she knows she’s allowed to be - and tugs her disheveled hair free from her floral hair tie. Monét muses her fingers through the strands, lays it so that it falls over Trixie’s shoulders, down her front, over her breasts.

Trixie scrutinises herself in the mirror - her skin glows blue, alien in the dark navy of the walls of the salon that surround her - and flicks the messy tendrils backwards, over her shoulders. Monét cocks an eyebrow, awaits Trixie to vocalise the thoughts that she can hear forming inside of her skull, gathering in the back of her throat.

“I want to cut it”. She blurts.

Her teeth are chewing her tongue and her cheeks into shreds, nibbling at them anxiously. It hurts, though doesn’t compare to the pounding in her head or the yanking of nails in her stomach, and she forces herself to relax as Monét’s eyes boggle noticeably, her fingers dropping the section of hair that she had been toying, looping around her thumb and forefinger.

“Cut it or _cut it_?”. Monét checks.

Trixie persuades the muscles of her face to curl up into a smile - it comes across as halfhearted at best, she’s aware - and taps the juncture an inch or so below her collarbones. She wants the lengths of her hair gone, needs to watch one of the trainee stylists brush them away, toss them into the trash where she’s come to require them to belong.

She feels trapped, blanketed by the quilt of warmth that the blonde fibres encase her in, and finds herself nodding rapidly to Monét who eyes her cautiously, wearily, eyebrows furrowed in the centre of her forehead. Trixie giggles to herself, the request is outlandish; she’s never had Monét cut more than an inch or two off of her hair, in fear that she’ll lose her security blanket, the very essence of her existence.

Trixie’s unable to comprehend why she ever thought so, has craved nothing more to feel her hair skim her shoulders, relish in it grazing the sides of her neck since Bobbie had mentioned it during brunch the week previously. It’s been stuck in her head - she briefly contemplates if it’s too impulsive - but knows that it’s what she wants, what she needs when Monét shows her the potential length, untucks her hair from behind her ears.

“Can we go shorter than that?”. Trixie tries.

“What’s gotten into you, baby?-“. Monét chuckles, wraps Trixie’s body in a protective cape.

“-Quarter life crisis? Bad breakup”. She finishes.

Trixie shakes her head with a snicker, uncrosses her legs only to cross them once more in the opposite direction. Monét’s expression remains curious, intrigued, perplexed as she clips Trixie’s hair into four smaller sections. Trixie mulls over her response, scrunches up her nose at the hair that dangles across her face, impairing her vision.

“God, no-“. Trixie mumbles, smiles warmly when Asia returns, hands her her cup of coffee.

“-Nothing like that. I just, I think it’s something I need to do for myself”. She establishes.

Monét hums in understanding, begins combing out Trixie’s hair - it’s clean, freshly washed the morning prior - and Trixie stifles the whines that are bubbling in her chest with every tangle that the teeth of the comb snag. She’s still in pain, the churning of her stomach off putting and alarming; she tells herself that after over a decade of regular periods that she should have become accustom to the discomfort that accompanies them, despite knowing that it’s not something that’s going to happen in her lifetime.

It’s unpleasant, first and foremost, makes her irritable and grouchy, bratty, and fills her to the brim with complaints about the feeling, her hunger, the weather outside that she wishes would be hotter in order to scorch her skin. She pushes said complaints down, however, gives Monét the go-ahead when she holds up her scissors, mumbles a faint tell me when you’re ready.

“Plus I think it’ll look cute as hell”. Trixie cracks.

She can hear the glide of the blades across the bottom section of her hair, is able to feel the tug against her scalp, and squeaks when Monét drops the chopped strands jokingly into her lap. They’re long, could probably wrap around her wrist, and Trixie brushes them carelessly to the floor, watches them crumple akin to the sycamore seeds that dwindle from the trees back in Milwaukee.

The blonde is stark against the ebony hard wood flooring, but Trixie can’t find it within herself to bat an eyelid when Monét is cutting the final layers of her hair before she’s so much as managed to register the visual change in her reflection that stares back at her through the glass of the mirror.

She looks different, predictably - Trixie hasn’t had hair this length since she was a young teenager - but Monét looks on approvingly, flicks her own box braids over her shoulder in pride. She’s done a good job on Trixie’s hair, it’s undeniable, and Trixie’s muttering _I love it I love it I love it_ whilst Monét snips at her feathered, face framing tendrils.

“You really wanted to do this, huh?”. Monét sets her scissors down on her station in disbelief.

“You have no idea”. Trixie sighs.

She thinks that Monét does have an idea. Trixie’s witnessed Monét’s ever evolving hair throughout the years that she’s been a client of the woman’s, has observed as with each change in her life, every distortion of her outlook, Monét had altered her hairstyle. She’d gone from auburn voluminous waves, to a short blonde pixie cut that Trixie could only dream of having the nerve to attempt, along with a sleek dark middle part and the long box braids that she possesses now. 

Trixie’s been a fan of all of them.

“Hormones, hey?”. Monét assumes.

Trixie despises the saying - it’s because of her hormones - though knows that Monét’s right. It’s her hormones, causing havoc and pain, suffering within her own body that shoves her to the edge, convinces her to follow through with decisions that she would ordinarily withhold from making. Trixie both loves and loathes them for it, despite the lightness in her chest that combats the deadweight in her gut when Monét begins curling the now shorter lengths, coifs Trixie’s frizz into a style that’s smooth, beach sleek.

Placing her now empty coffee cup onto the bench in front of her, Trixie allows Monét to untie the cape, brush her sweater clean of any strands that haven’t found their way to the floor. Trixie locks eyes with herself in the mirror, eyes wide and jaw slack in awe. Monét’s made her head that feels like it’s worth a nickel look like a million or so dollars, and Trixie reminds herself to tip and tip substantially, to hand Monét a handful of bills on top of what she charges.

Trixie knows that she deserves it.

“I can’t believe you did this”. Trixie beams. 

“I told ‘ya, honey, _soak_ is the best salon in LA and always will be as long as me and my girl are out here”. Monét smirks.

She glances towards Asia, who’s shampooing a client at one of the backwashes, and puckers her lips in a faux kiss that Asia catches with a hand that’s coated in suds. Trixie watches as Asia pulls said hand close to her chest, leaves a damp imprint on her powder blue apron, and fixes Monét with a final knowing glance before she diverts her attention back towards her client.

“Please never divorce-”. Trixie fluffs up her hair.

“-How would I _ever_ find another pair as good you to colour and cut my hair”. Trixie pouts.

Monét shrugs her shoulders, searches her station for the can of hairspray that she deems suitable for Trixie’s hair. She picks it up, sprays it from a distance - Trixie’s nostrils curl around the sweet, fruity scent - and tames any flyaways that stand to attention. Trixie hums approvingly, she looks better than she has in a while, despite the knotting that’s almost snapping in her stomach, and stands when Monét points in the direction of the front desk; Trixie still has to pay.

“Please, like we’d ever make any of our clients leave and head to Sharon’s down the street-“. Monét exasperates.

“-We’re dykes, not reincarnations of Satan himself, Trixie”. She deadpans.

“Point taken”. Trixie relents.

She retrieves her wallet from her handbag, pale grey faux suede that’s soft against the skin of her thigh where it dangles on the strap that’s slung over her shoulder. She searches in it, flicks through her amalgamation of cards and coins until she lands on her wad of cash, picks out the amount - and the additional tip - that she knows Monét charges. 

Trixie hands it to her across the counter, produces a satisfied smile when Monét rolls her eyes lovingly, stuffs the extra bills into the tip jar that Trixie knows she splits evenly at the end of each week with her employees. It’s an admirable action, Trixie thinks, and fixes the waistband of her high waisted shorts with a grimace as Monét beckons her next customer from the waiting area, over to the front desk.

Stuffing her wallet back into her bag, Trixie zips it up. She pulls her phone from her pocket, wraps her sweater tighter around her body and heads in the direction of the exit, the door a handful of yards to her right. She glances back towards Monét, Asia who’s scanning a colour chart with her client, and waves her hand nonchalantly in a goodbye.

“Oh, Trixie!-”. Monét calls.

Trixie whips her head around.

“-Tell Katya she was due in for a trim about ten years ago”. She jokes.

Barking out a laugh, nodding affirmatively, Trixie makes a mental note to do so, and turns on her heel, manoeuvres her body out of the salon and down the sidewalk that heads east; towards hers and Katya’s apartment with an airiness in her chest and an anchor in her stomach, grounding the ship of her body.

*****

When Trixie arrives home from the salon, she curls up on the living room couch and sleeps for two hours.

She kicks off her shoes in a daze, unbuttons the uncomfortable clasp of her shorts and lays a thin blanket across herself in an attempt to protect the exposed skin of her legs from the breeze that floods in from the open kitchen window. She doesn’t want to close it, knows that the room would heat to an irritating level if she did so regardless, and settles for swaddling herself in a pile of scatter cushions.

Her head lands on one that’s fluffy, fuzzy - strands of it tickle at the corners of her mouth - and her knee hooks itself around a smaller grey one, knitted and crocheted. She sighs, mind hazy with pain, paracetamol and purple from the sun that’s beginning to set outside, beyond the sheer curtains, and drifts into a slumber that lasts until Katya comes clattering through the door to their apartment.

She has her arms ladened with text books and writing pads - Trixie doesn’t understand where she stores any of them, ever - and Trixie watches out of squinting eyes as she drops them onto the small kitchen table with a thud. Katya groans, and Trixie chuckles at it from her position on the couch, sits to attention when Katya spots her, strides over with a grin.

The hue of the room is bright, fluorescent - Katya’d switched on the ceiling light with her elbow when she’d entered the apartment - and Trixie battles the tears that well in her eyes, a natural disdain for the lemon yellow strips that turn Katya’s hair to straw. Trixie’s eyebrows join in the centre until her vision adapts; it’s dark outside, is nine at night, but Trixie is convinced it’s the surface of the sun in the space between their four walls.

“Hey, baby-“. Katya greets.

She pulls Trixie into her side, her arm looped around her shoulder, and Trixie allows her bones to melt in to Katya’s the instant that she does so. Trixie rests her head on Katya’s chest - she can feel it rising and falling with exertion, clad in the fabric of her tank top - and pulls her blanket tighter across her lap.

“-Sorry I’m back so late, Jinkx roped me into proof reading her next ethics talk”. She explains.

Shrugging, Trixie mumbles unintelligibly. She doesn’t care - or rather she does, yet doesn’t harbour the energy to put up an argument - and finds herself attempting to burrow her way beneath Katya’s skin, her lips kissing gently at her collarbones that poke out above the neckline of her shirt. 

She doesn’t want to let go, won’t let go, not when she’s in Katya’s arms for what feels like the first time in the long week that she’s had, that they both have had. They’ve been busy, swept off of their feet, Trixie attending casting call after casting call and Katya working extended hours at the publishers, offering freelance work to Sasha,Ginger, _Jinkx_.

Trixie admires her nature, giving and devoted to her work and those who she surrounds herself with. It’s the way that Katya’s been since they’d met, and the way that she continues to be post-college, having secured the job that she’d been striving for since deciding to major in linguistics. Trixie’s proud of her, and ignores the ache that’s still prevalent in her stomach in lieu of glancing doe eyed up at Katya; she’s already looking back at her.

“Missed you”. Trixie whispers.

Katya’s expression softens considerably, her devilish grin dropping from her face. A simper of a pout replaces it, and Trixie’s eyes flutter closed as Katya coasts a thumb across her cheekbones, the dusting of freckles atop her nose. Katya’s touch travels, then, her fingertips untucking Trixie’s freshly cut hair from behind her ears and threading themselves into the base of her roots.

She tugs softly, draws Trixie’s head up and back so that Trixie’s neck cranes involuntarily. Trixie lets out a low whine, keens when Katya pulls harder, lures Trixie _closer closer closer._

Their bodies fold in on themselves, and Trixie’s hiccuping when Katya presses their chests together. Her breasts are still sensitive, swollen in the padded cups of her sports bra, and Katya notices, eases her fingers out of Trixie’s strands in order to face her.

“Missed you too-“. Katya breathes.

“-I like this, by the way”. She drawls, her fingers chasing the silk of Trixie’s waves.

She brushes Trixie’s hair away from her face clumsily, albeit delicately, and stretches out a singular curl until it’s straight. She allows it to spring free when Trixie’s cheeks pucker, rosiness prickling at the skin, and rearranges Trixie’s parting to where she assumes and recalls that it sat before hand.

“You don’t think it’s too different?”. Trixie’s uncertain.

Shaking her head, Katya mumbles no. She loves it, adores how it makes Trixie look and how she can tell it makes Trixie feel; she exudes confidence beneath the layer of pain, discomfort that she can see dripping like wax from Trixie’s eyelashes, her chin and her toes, and decides that Trixie’s never looked better despite aforementioned self-pity when the curls drop back into her line of sight.

“How’re you feeling?”. Katya tries tentatively.

She’s concerned, is unable to hide the fact, and chews her bottom lip between her teeth when Trixie shifts on the couch, tosses the blanket away. Trixie’s beginning to sweat, the droplets gathering in patches on her forehead, beneath her eyes and around her nose, and Katya dabs it away with the back of her hand, her wrist.

Trixie smiles gratefully - the apartment is too warm, she doesn’t know how when she’d been shivering cold when she’d initially arrived home - and shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly. The clasp and fly of her shorts is still unbuttoned, and Katya toys with it menially, drags her finger across the lilac waistband of what she knows are Trixie’s most elasticated, most comfortable pair of underwear.

“It hurts a lot this time”. Trixie relents.

Katya knows that it does.

She feels for Trixie, wishes that she could take on the pain for herself - her period cramps have never been bad, a drop in the ocean in comparison to Trixie’s - and nods her head empathetically. Trixie smiles regardless, the dimple on her right cheek morphing as she does so, and grasps both of Katya’s hands in her own.

“Do you ‘wanna take a bath? It’s already getting late. I bet you’re tired, _hm_?”. Katya questions soothingly.

Trixie nods her head once more, breathes out a _yeah_ , and then Katya’s pulling her up slowly, walking her out of the living room and down the corridor, towards Katya’s bathroom that houses the tub. Trixie remains close to her side, props her hip against the countertop as Katya switches on the faucet, half scalding half freezing, pours in a liberal amount of her favourite citrus bubble bath.

The tub fills rapidly, and Trixie uses the seconds that it takes Katya to locate towels for the both of them to use the toilet, flush her tampon and strip herself naked. She throws the majority of her clothing into the laundry basket, folds her sweater into a compact bundle that she discards next to the amalgamation of makeup products on the countertop, and sinks herself into the foot of water. 

The warmth laps at her skin - it’s halfway between hot and cold, Trixie wouldn’t have it any other way - and she stretches out her legs until her toes press to the bottom of the tub, elongates her arms upwards. Her fingers don’t reach the ceiling, barely reach a meter above her head, but her shoulders click, pop, shudder, and her muscles relax when she lowers them once more, brings them back down to her thighs with a splash. 

Puddles of water spill across the edge of the tub, drench the small rug that Katya’d bought when they’d first moved in. It’s white, patterned with multi coloured polka dots, and a smile forms unwittingly across Trixie’s face at the sight of it. She’s able to hear Katya pottering around in her bedroom, focuses on the sound of drawers opening and closing, before there are tepid footsteps, making their way from the bedroom and into the bathroom to stand directly above Trixie. 

“Get in”. Trixie pleads, lifts a damp hand to tug at the fabric of Katya’s tank top.

Katya complies wordlessly, rids her body of her denim mini skirt and her tank top, folds them and places them on top of Trixie’s sweater. Her underwear follows, though ends it’s journey in the the laundry basket, and she’s stepping into the tub seconds later, situating herself behind Trixie’s soapy back.

She slots her legs each side of Trixie, between Trixie’s thick thighs and the walls of the tub as she reclines, encourages Trixie to mirror her movements. Trixie does so, allows her body to fall into Katya’s - she can feel Katya’s nipples pressing on opposing sides of her spine, her arms wrapping around Trixie’s middle - and she sighs raggedly when Katya begins fiddling with her hair, secures it in a low bun at the base of her neck.

The shape of the bun gives Trixie’s tired skull the relief she’s been craving - it’s a pillow, Katya’s a mattress - and she closes her eyes once more, shuts off the faucet with her toes. She sighs; Katya’s hands are everywhere, rubbing away the lines, the indentations that her panties have left in her hips, along with trailing up to her stomach, tapping rhythmically around her navel.

It’s as soothing as the calming water, as intoxicating as the scent of Sicilian lemons flooding her nostrils, and Trixie exhales raggedly with each touch that works deeper, coaxes out the ache of her cramps.

“Tell me about your day-”. Trixie mutters.

“-Please?”. She adds.

Katya does. 

She tells Trixie of her cab driver who she recognised from one of their previous rides - _Kameron_ \- and tells her about how it had her itching to book an appointment at their local tattoo parlour after witnessing Kameron’s full sleeves, the winged creature that splays across her chest.

Her words drone on, and Trixie absorbs each and every one of them as Katya informs her of her favourite clients at the publishers, the ones that she’d rather not have to read, too. Trixie learns about Jinkx’s new talk in low grumbles and expressive expletives, the content that she tackles whilst discussing the ethics of others, and decides that she’ll attend one of said talks later in the fall, when casting calls and potential callbacks have died down. 

Katya concludes her rambles with a kiss to Trixie’s shoulder. Trixie hums - a shiver wracks her body, centres in her core - and pulls Katya’s hands tighter around her body. The heels of Katya’s palms rest on Trixie’s pubic mound, on the blonde curls that Trixie’s grown out noticeably in the previous months. Katya glides a featherlight touch across them, and cocks an eyebrow quizzically when Trixie lifts her neck, looks at her with blown out eyes.

Trixie nods her head; she’s grown restless through Katya’s soft spoken words, her touches that Trixie knows were meant innocently, had been intended merely to relive her cramps. They’d done so, to an extent, but had awakened the dormant desire that lays in her chest, ignited aflame for Katya Katya Katya. 

She needs Katya to touch her - she spreads her legs further in hopes that Katya will understand without Trixie having to vocalise her needs - and internally rationalises that an orgasm would help with her cramps; they always have done.

“Kat, can you-“. Trixie whines, pleads.

“Shhh, lay back”. Katya speaks into the crook of her neck.

Trixie feels like she’s floating. The water lifts her hips, and the anchor that had been sinking her stomach is shifted out of existence when Katya’s fingers are on her, inside of her. There are two, pushing and curling against her walls, slick with her wetness and blood that she can see clinging to Katya’s fingers, seeping into the water between her legs.

Everything slippery - soap suds, water, come, blood - and Trixie can feel her impending orgasm building with each crook of Katya’s fingers, the pressure that the palm of her hand provides her clit with. It’s more than Trixie had been wanting, more than she had been craving and needing, but then Katya’s pulling out of her, reaching to drain the tub of its water.

“Up”. Katya coaxes.

She wipes her blood stained fingers across her own thigh, stands and steps around Trixie’s trembling frame until she’s able to settle herself between Trixie’s legs. Katya’s already anticipating the taste of Trixie, can feel her coating her tongue as the water sloshes shallow around them, and smiles reassuringly when Trixie nods her head.

They want it. 

Katya hooks her fingers beneath Trixie’s thighs, pulls her closer until she feels like she’s going to suffocate, is positive that she’s going to choke on everything that Trixie has to offer. She licks across Trixie’s clit, lightly to begin with, knows that Trixie’s sensitivity increases on the days before, during an after her period, and awaits the reaction that’s due.

It comes in the form of Trixie cupping her cheeks tenderly, pulling Katya closer to her core with a weakened grip. Katya abides, dips her tongue lower, and moans when her lips are coated in Trixie, her tongue greeted with the metallic taste that’s indicative of Trixie’s body.

Katya revels in it, as does Trixie, who blushes furiously at the sight of Katya huddled between her legs, her mouth licking and kissing, forming a suction around Trixie’s clit that grows stronger when Katya’s hand disappears between them once more. Two of her fingers slip inside of Trixie with little resistance - Trixie’s so wet and open that Katya doesn’t doubt she could work her whole first in, if she tried - but refrains from adding another.

She lifts her head, instead, her eyes narrowing in lust at the sight of Trixie. She appears fucked out and exhausted, blood dripping from between her legs, smeared across her thighs and pooling at the juncture where they meet onto the white ceramic of the tub floor.

It’s a mess - Katya can’t get enough, laps up all she’s able to - and pumps her fingers harder when Trixie brings her own hand down, drags the tips of her fingers haphazardly across her clit; she’s seconds away from coming.

“I’m so close-“. Trixie squeaks.

“- _Katya_ ”. She breathes through her nose. 

Katya works faster, deeper, doesn’t relent until Trixie’s thighs are clamping around her shoulders, squeezing her bones and shattering the groan that leaves her lips in fragments. Trixie’s back arches against the base of the tub, the slope of the wall, and then she’s falling, sobbing in relief as Katya switches the faucet back on once more, begins to fill the tub in order to wash the both of them clean.

Trixie pulls Katya up towards her, doesn’t think twice about Kissing Katya’s swollen lips through the blood and the cum that’s painted across her cheeks, nestled between her teeth and her gums. It’s hot hot hot - Katya adores Trixie every day of every month - and Trixie has to clamp her legs together when stomach flutters, her walls clenching in aftershocks as Katya whispers in her ear.

“You taste so good”.

**Author's Note:**

> i’m also on tumblr @ silvervelour !


End file.
